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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23117257">Wilted Flower</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed'>mytimehaspassed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Off By Heart [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Alternate Universe - High School, Drug Dealing, M/M, Prostitution, Recreational Drug Use</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2010-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2010-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 16:33:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Underage</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,709</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23117257</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel keeps you on speed dial.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester/Original Male Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Off By Heart [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1661665</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Wilted Flower</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Castiel keeps you on speed dial. "Ever try selling something harder," he says into the receiver when you pick up. He's out of breath, his voice low and hoarse. You can just picture his fingers creeping down his stomach.</p><p>"No," you tell him. You're helping Sam into his jacket, fitting gloves over his tiny hands, your cell phone pinned to your cheek by your shoulder. You don't have time for this.</p><p>"Not even Tina?" he says, his breathing labored, his voice tinged with pleasure. This isn't even the first time he's done this.</p><p>"No," you say, wrapping a scarf around Sam's neck and grabbing your keys from the kitchen table. Your father has been passed out on the sofa since two in the morning, his snoring loud and obtrusive, his clothes shedding oil and cigarette ash on the fabric. You pack Sam's lunch into his backpack, zippering it closed before gathering up your book full of baggies and heading for the door.</p><p>Castiel's almost done, his moans in your ear. "Not even X?" he says.</p><p>"No," you say, hanging up right before he comes.</p><p>You help Sam into the Impala and tug a seatbelt over him just as your phone starts vibrating again. It's Castiel. He'll call four more times before giving up and texting you to ask if you could come over. None of your other clients has ever had such a fierce addiction, but you'll go to his house with enough weed to give him something to do. Just like the time before and the time before that.</p><p>You drop Sam off at school and make your way to Castiel's, pulling in the driveway and watching as he comes out of the house in only jeans. He pads over to your window and you roll it down before turning off the engine.</p><p>"I'm glad you came," he says, hooking an arm around your neck and pushing your mouth towards his. You let him kiss you for a few moments before pulling away.</p><p>"I can't give it to you for free this time," you say. "I've got bills to pay."</p><p>Castiel shrugs and makes a face like he doesn't care, reaching over the window to place a hand over the bulge in your jeans. "S'cool," he says. He kisses you one more time before turning away and heading back barefoot into the house.</p><p>You follow him, winding up the stairs to his room. You've never met his parents, which is just as well, because you've never been one for awkward situations. There are clothes on the steps, books on the hallway floor, dirty plates stacked haphazardly in Castiel's room.</p><p>"Did the maid skip out or something," you ask, running a finger along his bookshelf. Yates, Vonnegut, Tennessee Williams.</p><p>"My parents are in Brazil for a month." Castiel's already naked on his bed, flicking his lighter open, flicking his lighter closed. You don't ask why his parents are in Brazil, but only because you don't really care.</p><p>You undo the button on your jeans, slide your shirt over your head, but instead of going further, you lean your hands on the bed, close to Castiel, licking your lips as you say, "Money, please."</p><p>Castiel never lets his gaze leave yours, even as he opens the drawer beside his bed and grabs five hundred dollar bills out of a stack. "Will this be enough?" he says. He arches his eyebrow, he's not smiling.</p><p>You train your face not to look surprised. but you can't help it when your mouth drops open. It's not very professional, but you cover your shock by leaning forward to kiss Castiel, slipping the bills out of his hand and sliding them into your pocket.</p><p>***</p><p>You sit against Castiel's chest and roll a blunt for him, your fingers slick with his saliva. This is how it always is afterwards, him pressing soft kisses on your temple, you hoping the blunt won't last long, so maybe you could sell some more before you have to pick Sam up from school, so maybe the water won't be cut off again like last time. You still have the bruises from your father's grip, yellow on the inside of your wrist where he pressed so hard you actually thought you'd cry out. He only touched you when he was really angry, otherwise he left you and Sam to fend for yourselves.</p><p>You hand Castiel the blunt and he lights the tip, breathing in the smoke. "Worth it?" you say, even though you might be pressing your luck, your skin red and raw from Castiel's teeth and nails.</p><p>"Definitely," he says, exhaling in perfect circles.</p><p>He hands the blunt to you even though he knows you don't smoke, moving his mouth to your neck and sucking on the soft spot there. You close your eyes, but all you can think of is the money sitting silent in your jeans pocket.</p><p>"I have to go," you say, even though it's hopeless.</p><p>"Second wind," Castiel says, his hands sliding down your chest.</p><p>***</p><p>The second time you ever thought about leaving, it was with one of your father's friends. He was gruff and hoarse and muscled, battle scars from Vietnam white and livid against his tan skin, even after all these years. He stole and drank and he laughed when you showed him your stash of weed, running a palm through your hair and calling you a little baby entrepreneur, just like he used to be when he was your age.</p><p>His hands were rough, but you liked it when he touched you. You liked it when you were close enough to smell the beer and cologne and grease on his skin. Sometimes he let you kiss him, soft, slow, maybe when your father ran out to the liquor store, maybe when he had already passed out on the couch. Sometimes he let you touch him, grip him thick with your fist, his breaths panted against your neck, your mouth.</p><p>You never thought this was a bad idea, even when he would tell you to stop, even when he would tell you that he couldn't go back to jail, not after the last time, not after he's finally found a job run by people who turn their heads at criminal records. An honest job, his fingers smooth on your nose, on your cheeks. A straight job, his tongue wet against your chin, your lips.</p><p>He never asked you to come with him, but you could tell he wanted it, even when he pushed your wandering hands away. You'd find him in your father's room, slung cold on the bed, and you'd slip him out of his jeans, slick mouth all the way down. He'd give up sometime after the third push, your stubborn mouth and his hands turning tight in your hair, gripping harder and harder each time he moaned.</p><p>He never looked at you those mornings, but he'd slip a twenty in your pocket. "For lunch money," he'd say. "Just in case." Just in case your father couldn't get out of bed, just in case you ended up selling something more harmful than weed to make the rent.</p><p>He never asked you to come with him, but you've never wanted anything so bad.</p><p>***</p><p>Sam knows not to talk to strangers. Sam knows not to take candy or get in a van or help look for a lost puppy. You taught him these things, holding him tight with both fists on his straightened elbows, your voice low and serious. You've taught him everything your father forgot to teach you after your mother died, when it was just you and him and Sam and the vast emptiness of the house in Lawrence, your mother's things untouched until the day you moved, your father's hands still and quiet on the steel handled brush, the bottles of perfume.</p><p>Your father never cried after the funeral, even when you couldn't stop.</p><p>Sam knows how to make breakfast and dinner, how to finish his homework without help, how to put himself to bed, all the things he needs to know in case you can't make it, in case your father has forfeited sobriety for poker games and snorting bumps off the kitchen island. Sam knows how to dial your cell phone in case one of your unhappy clients show up, in case your father's friends are bit too rowdy, in case he ever needs you there. Sam knows how to tie his shoes and comb his hair and brush his teeth, but he likes it when you're there to smile and run your fingers over his head, sweeping the bangs off his forehead, cupping your hand around his neck. He likes it when you can say goodnight, your kiss soft and warm on his temple.</p><p>You buy him books and toys and clothes with your weed money. This is after you make sure the bills have been paid, this is after your father raids your jeans for beer money or coke money or whatever else he needs, leaving streaks of oil on your laundry. There's an empty can of salt you keep underneath one of your floorboards, the same dirty and dusty space for your drugs, where you keep your crumpled twenties, your crumpled fifties, that you keep just for Sam. Just for him.</p><p>You're just feeding Sam his dinner, twirling spaghetti on his fork just the way he likes it, leaving meat sauce mustaches on your upper lip as Sam laughs and laughs, when your phone starts vibrating in your pocket.</p><p>"Hello," you say, slipping Sam the fork and wiping your messy mouth with the back of your hand.</p><p>"Is this Dean Winchester?" The boy on the other end is breathless, but it's not Castiel.</p><p>"Yeah?" Sam is slurping spaghetti noisily, but you can just make out sounds in the background, a girl giggling, a boy calling someone else a fag.</p><p>"I'm having a little get together," he says this like it's a joke. "I was just wondering if you could make it down with some party favors." You don't ask how he got your number because you never ask. You don't really care, anyway.</p><p>"Tonight?" Your father won't be here to watch Sam, but you bet if you put him to bed and lock the house up nice and tight, everything will be fine. You won't be long anyway.</p><p>"Yeah. Around nine?" He gives you the address and tells you he'll be looking forward, his voice soft against the cascade of laughter in the background.</p><p>Sam knows what this means. He finishes his dinner in silence and later you'll kiss his forehead goodnight and he'll turn away from you, burying his face in his pillow.</p><p>***</p><p>The boy that called you, his name is Adam. His parents own one of the leading real estate agencies in the whole state. The first thing he says to you is, "You sell Brick?" Like maybe it's a casual thing, standing in mommy and daddy's guest house with forty other college students asking about drugs.</p><p>"No," you say, gritting your teeth. "Just weed."</p><p>"Oh," Adam says, like maybe he's disappointed. "Well, that's cool, I guess. Come in."</p><p>You watch as a topless eighteen year old blonde girl runs through the foyer, straight out the door. "That's Aubrey," Adam says. "She got hold of some E."</p><p>You want to ask why they need the weed then, but you're too afraid of losing the sale. Adam leads you up the stairs to one of the back bedrooms, telling you to sit down on the bed. You pull out a baggie and some rolling paper and start at it, Adam's eyes watching your fingers work.</p><p>"I heard you give out other things, too," he says.</p><p>Oh. You look up a him, his Hollister polo shirt and Abercrombie jeans, and you want to say no, you want to say that he's heard rumors, he's heard lies, but you've always had trouble letting anything but the truth escape your lips. "Sometimes," you say. "If the price is right."</p><p>"Name it," he says.</p><p>He could top Castiel's five hundred any day, you know that just by looking at his perfect spray tan. You lick the paper slow and smooth like maybe this is all just a show, like this is all just some stupid game you could actually win. Adam leans so close you can see the green of his eyes, bright against the shadows of the room.</p><p>"I'll give you anything," he says.</p><p>His mouth so close to yours you can feel his breath warm on your lips. "Anything you want," he says.</p><p>The blunt sits heavy between your fingers, heavy until Adam plucks it and lights the tip, inhaling for a few moments and then pressing his lips to yours. He lets his tongue pry your mouth open, passing the smoke into your lungs. You want to choke, but he presses himself into the kiss, his fist pulling at your shirt, his taste like beer and licorice.</p><p>When he pulls away, you can't breathe. His lis are red and wet and he sucks another obscene hit, but you can't feel your cheeks or your lips, even though you know it's not the drugs, you know it's not the smoke coating your throat.</p><p>Adam says, "I heard you gave great head." His eyebrow arched like maybe he couldn't believe that, like maybe you're not even worth it.</p><p>"I told you," you say, coughing before your voice even has a chance to return to normal. "For a price." And you nod to the wallet that's sitting on the nightstand.</p><p>Adam laughs and reaches for it, his back one long curving line, licking his fingers and pulling out some bills, handing them to you. "For you and the weed," he says, like maybe you'd forget why you were here in the first place.</p><p>You don't need to count it to know that it's more money than you'll make in a week of selling to high school kids and horny lawyers. It's more money than your father puts up his nose a day. You don't want to smile, so you kiss him instead, your teeth sharp against his skin, your mouth hungry. His hands wrap around you and don't let go until you feel a blossom of dull pain, throbbing for your attention. You already know what you're going to get Sam, you already know what kinds of food you don't have to pass up at the grocery store this time. Adam's skin on yours, he pulls off his shirt and bites down hard on the crook of your neck, his nails digging into your ribs.</p><p>You're just unzipping his pants when you hear the door creak open. You must be a mess when you turn, your skin red and slick with saliva, but you turn anyway, even as Adam moans for whoever it is to get the fuck out.</p><p>"Sorry," Castiel says, his blue eyes looking straight into yours.</p><p>***</p><p>The first time you ever thought about leaving, you were watching Sam in the playground, laughing and laughing as he pumped his legs on the swing, as he gripped the monkey bars tight. You've always known that he should have had a normal life, one with a mother who kisses him and cleans up his messes and sews up the holes in the knees of his pants. One with a father who actually pays attention, a brother who doesn't fuck everything up. Sam should have everything he asks for.</p><p>Once upon a time, you could have let Sam have a home like that. This was after your mother died, before you started selling. This was before your father's drugs, but after he started hitting things, smashing bottles on the kitchen floor, breaking glass picture frames. This was before your father packed up everything your mother ever owned and set fire to it in the front yard. Before he cried over her for the first time, huddled on the kitchen floor and asking God questions he'll never get the answers to. You could have given Sam up to a family who has never been like yours, whi has never seen the things you have seen, done the things you have done.</p><p>Once upon a time, you could have left your family behind and become something normal or safe. But you didn't, you couldn't, Sam's little hand slipping into yours, Sam's smile like Mom's smile, soft and beautiful.</p><p>You've never been selfless.</p><p>***</p><p>"I thought," Castiel says, but you have to stop him there. He's leaning against the door like maybe he thinks Adam will be coming back and Castiel's the only defense. You're on the bed, holding your shirt to your chest, exposed.</p><p>"It's business," you say. "Sorry, but it's business. It's what I do, I figured you knew that." You also figured Castiel wasn't the type to make a big deal where there wasn't one. You were wrong.</p><p>"But, we had," he stops and takes a step closer, his hand out like maybe he might touch you, your skin raw from Adam's mouth. "What we did..."</p><p>"Look," you say. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of broke all the time. I need this, I don't do it because it's fun."</p><p>Castiel sucks in a gulp of air between his teeth like you've just smacked him in the face. "If," he starts, his hand dropping to his side. "If you need money, I can give it to you. I can take care of you. You don't have to do this with other guys. It can just be me."</p><p>Oh, so that's what this is about. You stand up and make an angry move towards him. "I've been with some jealous guys before, you know, and it's not worth it." You pull your shirt on over your head and grab the half empty baggie left on the bed. Adam took the money with him when he left, pushing past Castiel with a roll of his eyes. Looks like it'll be microwave dinners for the next month.</p><p>Castiel grabs your arm before you can leave, twisting it away from you. If you had to, you could always make a run for the car where you keep your guns, loaded in the glove compartment and ready for just this. "Let go of me," you say, your voice low.</p><p>"Please," he says, even as the tightening of his grip betrays his words. "Just think about it."</p><p>You want to say no, but to be honest, you don't have a lot of options right now.</p><p>***</p><p>The next morning, your father stumbles into your room with whiskey on his breath, his fist curled around your sheets. He's shoving the salt can in your face, his fingers thick and warm, and he looks like maybe this has been the last fuck up, like maybe this is it. "Hiding things from me, boy?" he says, and you want to close your eyes, but you're afraid of what he'll do.</p><p>"Yes, sir," you grit out. It's your money, you want to say. Your money that pays for this house, this life, that will let Sam escape one day, just like you never could.</p><p>Your father's fist is close to your face, but he doesn't hit you. He's never hit you, even when you could see the want in his eyes, the strain of his muscles, the sharp angle of his jaw. "You'll be giving this to me from now on," he says, his fingers around the can, his cologne tickling your nose.</p><p>"Yes, sir," you manage, your chest tightening until maybe you can't feel your heartbeat anymore, until maybe your mouth aches from the grinding of your teeth.</p><p>You want to tell him to fuck off and never come back, leave you and Sam and this stupid excuse for a family, but your tongue is heavy in your throat, your lips won't move. You want to tell him exactly what you do to get that money, but you know the words won't even make it past your teeth.</p><p>"Good boy," he says, his hand sweeping through your hair.</p><p>You turn away and press your face into the pillows, if only so he won't see your tears.</p><p>***</p><p>Castiel answers the door with barefeet. He looks dark and cold and he has bruises underneath his eyes, like maybe he's been taking more than just weed, like maybe he's been up all night. He looks surprised to see you, but not exactly happy.</p><p>You curl a hand around the back of Sam's neck, holding him close. He had asked you in the car where you were going, but you couldn't give him an answer until you turned down Castiel's street. It's the only place you could go.</p><p>"Hey," you say, shivering against the wind. "Can we come in?"</p><p>Castiel moves aside, but doesn't say anything, not even when you take off Sam's coat and tell him to not wander too far, sending him down the hall and towards the kitchen. Castiel doesn't make a move towards you, so you close the gap, your mouth soft against his, warm. He wants to kiss you back, but he's not letting himself.</p><p>"If this was a bad idea," you say, pulling back.</p><p>"No," he says, sharp. "No, I'm just tired."</p><p>"Okay." Your fingers wind themselves in his hair, in his shirt. "Okay."</p><p>You needed to get out of your house, you tell him later, his hands on you. You and Sam, you had to get out of the house before your father started putting you in more debt, stealing your weed money and buying more drugs with it. Buying alcohol and letting his friends sleep over. You're not putting Sam through that, he's already seen more than enough.</p><p>Castiel was the only one who's ever offered you this chance, you tell him. Castiel was the only one who could live with all this, you and Sam and your stupid drugs. Your father's habit. Your skin with the ghostly touch of all those other boys, all those other men. Castiel's the only one who's never gotten tired of you.</p><p>You catch Castiel's gaze as he watches you watch Sam and you smile, his fingers curling around yours.</p>
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